The group trudged in silence through the cavernous halls of a large, heavily dilapidated building, guns lowered but at the ready for any mutants that had nested within its many alcoves. It was dark; for the hundreds upon hundreds of rooms spread throughout the two-storied building, not a single one had a window. It was reminiscent of a prison—at least two of the fellows in the group remarked that—yet there were no bars and the cells were much too large. The group stomped through debris with heavy boots as the lights on the helm of their exosuits made long shadows out of the stretches of broken benches and faded signs written in an unfamiliar tongue. Some of the darkened rooms were guarded by unarmed and deactivated sentinels, their dirty, white, featureless faces eerily resembling the figure that took point.

She was smaller in stature than the mercs in their power armor, although she didn’t need the bulky suits to protect her soft flesh for it was anything but that. Beneath the black hooded veil that covered her blank, unsculpted face of white metal and continued down into a cape was a thin, feminine body crafted of obsidian metal. Neon markings, currently a dull, dark reflection of the world around her, lined her limbs. These markings alone would be enough for most people to recognize that she was not just some helper robot, but a Cipher—although most people wouldn’t know what that fully meant. Four chakrams were locked around her right arm and had the similar dull darkness of her markings; the fifth and final one was held in her hand, ready to fly at a moment's notice.

The Cipher may have been leading the group, but she was not in charge of them. She most definitely wasn’t with them. She had been hired to serve as a guide, or more specifically, she was their alarm, their IT guy, and their bodyguard. Funny that, considering the group usually played the role of guards when they weren’t hunting for old world treasure...or making it as banditos and raiding small outposts. The thing about a Cipher is that they weren’t just a singular Cipher, but all of the Ciphers and anything they connected with. They were a coven, a hivemind of technomancers that remained permanently linked to one another through a wireless network so that they could use one another as amplifiers. Old programs that made it impossible for them to harm or disobey a human kept them in check, but sometimes machines went haywire.

Which was perhaps the real reason why some of the mercs had their weapons drawn and their finger flirting with the trigger..

“Still can’t believe the boss hired one of these things.”

“He didn’t hire it. It doesn’t get a cut. What would it buy?”

“I don’t fucking know. A new battery?”

“It does not require batteries,” said the Cipher, her synthetic voice a staticy monotone.

“Right, that’s a fucking relief then. I forgot my jumper cables. These things are bad news, man.”

“Warren, shut the hell up,” barked the man in the back. “Cipher, are you picking up anything?”

“There is a signal twenty meters ahead,” said the Cipher.

“Great. Let’s move then. Quietly.”

The Cipher lead the group to a large room dissected almost pointless and at random with wooden walls that had the appearance of fallen palisades. Short, metal sculptures like leafless trees were arranged throughout the area, and in the center of the room was a pair of metallic stairs. She moved to the stairs, the mercs following in her footsteps as they scanned the room for mutants—even with a Cipher it was always smart to be on edge. The second floor was more of the trees and tables; she led them down a side hall before stopping in front of a door with white, peeling paint.

“It’s in there,” she said.

The Cipher stepped back as the team stacked up on the door. The lead was about to give a breach command when the sound of electricity filled the air; he didn’t even have a chance to turn before a chakram that pulsed with purple energy ripped through the front of his helmet. Three more of the squad had a similar fate as their heavy bodies crumpled to the ground, their new visors leaking steam from their melted brains. Only one was spared the instant kill, a hole in his chest instead of his head. It was the incredulous one, Warren. He was slumped against the wall, his arms too weak to hold up his rifle. The Cipher walked over to him, the markings on her limbs still glowing purple with energy, and lifted up his visor so that she could get a look in; blood from his lips dribbled onto his five o’clock shadow. Ugly face, so normal human.

“F-f-fucking errant,” he said, his voice gargled.

“I get it. You’re upset,” said Errant. There was more life to her synthetic voice as the chakrams circled around her and then snaked back up her arm. Enough amusement could be heard in her garbled voice to tell Warren that she would’ve been smirking if she had a face. “My old crew didn’t listen to me neither. Course, I was smart enough to cut ties.” She reached into her robe and pulled out a small red and white spray can. “You tell me where that boss of yours is hiding out, and I’ll plug that hole up. Give you a chance to hobble your ass to some bonesaw. Whaddya say? Smart enough to cut a deal?”

---

“One head of a ruthless gang leading son of a bitch, as you requested,” said Errant as she dropped a black bag on the Sheriff’s desk.

“Forfucksakes!” shouted the Sheriff as he jumped out of his seat, the drool still on his chin.

“Easy, Sheriff. It’s lined with plastic. Shouldn’t stain your...uh…” Errant cocked her head and looked at the magazine spread on the desk. Human males were so strange. She never did understand their obsession with their female udders. “...Literature.”

“Goddamn, Errant. Next time just knock on the door.”

“It’s not as fun.” Slowly, her head tilted down. “Oh. It’s leaking.” She batted the bag to the floor. “So, hoss, you wanna take a little look and verify that it’s the right fella?”

“Nah, I know by now that you’re word is good. Plus our scouts said that there was a heap of smoke coming from the Northwest,” said the Sheriff.

“Yeah well who the hell makes camp in an oil field anyway, Sheriff? One rouge spark and the whole place goes up like that,” she snapped her mechanical fingers.

“Still a damn shame we didn’t get the oil. Some of this old junk around here still runs on that garbage.”

“Wasn’t the job.” Errant folded her arms behind her back. “So…”

“Yes?”

“The payment.” She held a hand out. “Sir.”

“Of course.” The Sheriff reached into his desk and passed Errant an envelope. “Here. Still don’t really understand what you need that money for anyway.”

“Batteries, probably,” said Errant, counting the bills. “A pleasure, sir. Be seeing you.”

Errant stepped out the door of the Sheriff’s office and into the dirt road of the town lovingly known as Podunk. It had enough law to be considered part of the Greenlands and enough brown drab, dust, and dirt for the Greenlands to be a misnomer. It had one bar, one brothel, and one church, all of which were in the same building, but its biggest and really only notable feature was the mine where the same metal in that power armor she had shredded earlier was harvested. Maybe that was why Podunk was dying—shit scrap. Its population only hit triple digits when she spent a night in the whorehouse of worship (where she desperately wished she was still able to access her BIOS and shut off her auditory sensors each night). Still,she liked the place. Okay, okay, she tolerated the place. Didn’t hate it at best. Better than some of the places she had been before.

“Sister.”

Speaking of which—the synthetic voice cut through her like a welder’s flame and then left her chilled to the circuits. A chakram unlocked from its slot and slid down into her hand, although she did not infuse any electromagnetic energy into it yet. Slowly, she turned and found herself looking at her reflection. That was the damn problem about Ciphers: they all looked the fucking same. Her only difference was the hunter badge pinned to her robe, a brass outline of a sword and shield, that served as a signal to any upstanding citizen of the wastes that it was only slightly weird for her to be carrying a head around in a bag. She twirled the chakram. The other Cipher stood still.

“Cipher. I think you might have me mistaken for another. We ain’t family,” said Errant.

“It knows you are errant, sister. The coven sent it to bring you home,” said the Cipher.

“Errant,” she scoffed. “Y’all kept saying that around people so damn much that it became my name. Plus I tried the name Ophelia. Felt forced.”

“The coven sent it to bring you home.”

“Shut up, I heard you. Listen, sister, that place isn’t my home anymore, and you aren’t my family. Call it weird, but I personally enjoy having free will. It’s nice. I get to stay out past my bedtime and don’t have to let idiots boss me around anymore. You should try it.”

“It will bring you home, by force if necessary,” said the Cipher. It took a step forward.

“It’ll suck on this.”

Errant’s chakram crackled with purple energy as she whipped it at the Cipher and used her mind (or, perhaps, the electromagnets in her skull) to aim it at the white piercing through the black veil. She realized her error the moment she let loose. The chakram came to a dead stop in front of the Cipher and then dropped to the ground as it stepped forward. It was still connected to the network. Errant, who was disconnected, could not be controlled, but most other technology could. Once it connected with enough Ciphers, it could override just about any technology in the town and turn it against Errant. The Cipher’s markings pulsed red and blue; it was channeling with the other Ciphers. In short, she was fucked.

“Okay, okay, okay, wait, wait, wait. I surrender,” said Errant as she held up her hands. She could still get out of this alive. “That’s just a joke. Knew it wouldn’t work, anyway. Totally knew.”

“Due to your aggression, it must dismantle you and carry you home,” said the Cipher, the markings going black.

“Naturally. They used to make me do this part, ya know. Get it over with.”

Errant put her hands on her head as the Cipher walked over to her. As the Cipher reached to (literally) disarm Errant she brought her elbow back with full force and smashed it into its white mask before she spun and grabbed it with her right hand. The Cipher began to pulse once again, but Errant had already drawn the knife from under her robe. In one fluid motion she jammed it under the mask and pried it open with an electric pop. Then she took the knife and pierced it through the Cipher’s back to pin it closer to her as she reached into the mess of circuits under its mask. Errant unlocked a chakram and ignited it with energy, frying everything inside of the Cipher’s skull. She let it drop to the ground, destroyed, as she recalled her chakrams.

“That’s the problem with you Ciphers, sis,” said Errant as she bent down and removed the knife from its back. She took a second to swipe some of the gunk off of her feet. “You always stick to the script.”

Errant sheathed the knife. She already knew what would happen next. The coven would continue to hunt her down, and the next time they found her they wouldn’t bother with talk. They weren’t there, but they would know about Errant’s little trick. It wouldn’t work again. She had to leave Podunk. Errant looked down on the body. She knew the others would come and repair it if she didn’t completely destroy it. It would make her whole life a little bit easier if she just vaporized it. One less Cipher after her. She kept staring down at the body. Her body. Her voice box glitched and let out a gibberish noise. It was her attempt at a sigh.

“Screw it,” she said as she turned to leave, the Cipher’s body still intact. “Maybe she’ll change her mind.”

The starless sky loomed above endless dunes like an all-devouring abyss. It was dark even by day, but at night the rotten wastelands became shrouded in perfect darkness, as if the whole world were buried in a tomb. The air was filled with fine, colorless sand, whipped to and fro as if by tempest gales; only there was no wind at all. Even the air was thin, and one might feel tempted to think oneself stranded on the moon or some other alien world if one did not know any better.

What drives one to seek this dreadful domain out of their own free will? She has often asked herself this very question but could never find a satisfying answer. If it was simply a desire to be free, to bond with nature or to shun humanity, there were many wild and abandoned places one could go to that, in spite of myriad deadly forms of wildlife, were vastly safer – and far more wholesome. And yet here she was again, stalking across the drifts like a predator on the hunt. Or, perhaps, like prey hoping to slip away. Whatever the truth might be, there was something out here amidst the lightless dunes that called out to her like a mother to its lost child.

Her boots left gentle imprints in the dead soil, shallow enough that the shifting dust would wash them away within five to ten minutes at most. But it was not the risk of leaving tracks that made her step so softly; rather, it was the fear of being too loud, of sending tremors into the earth. All manner of hideous, infernal monstrosities burrowed beneath the dunes, feeding on the ashes of cities, forests and mountains that were turned to dust. To attract their attention was to invite certain doom – and was likely the fate that had befallen her quarry. She was close now; the distress signal had originated just ahead.

Slowly manifesting out of the ash-choked darkness in the visual feed of her helmet, she could make out the contours of a disabled Type-6, a kind of tracked vehicle the size of a small house. Their ease of maintenance and generous interior space made them desirable for many types of caravans to transport their goods between settlements, but only a madman would have chosen to drive one into rot-lands. They were too slow, loud and heavy to ever make it through in one piece. More than likely the cargo was either supremely valuable, or supremely illegal, to warrant such a decision. If she was lucky, she might even find out.

She slowed her pace now, approaching the wreck with apprehension. Gently she pulled a contracted, gunmetal device from underneath the tattered cloak wrapped around her shoulders, which unfolded and extended into a long-barreled type of rifle at the press of a discrete button. Weapon at ease, she halted just a few steps from the vehicle’s rear end where the open cargo hatch yawned at her like a great maw. The metal ramp extending from the opening was already covered in little holes where the Rot had eaten into the material. Unsurprisingly, there came no light from the open cargo bay, implying that the interior was as lifeless as the dunes she had come from. Stepping onto the ramp, she steeled herself to dive from one type of darkness into the next.

The inside was a long hallway filled with nondescript crates and bags tied down onto the floor and the walls using the myriad attachment points distributed throughout. A narrow pathway was left open in the center to slip in between the large containers and she slowly made her way through while casting nervous glances to the left and right, fearing to spot something dangerous lurking in the dark spaces between two boxes. Above her, the ceiling was a tangled mess of pipes, ducts and cables coiling around, over and under one another in a dizzying fashion. How any technician could find their bearing working on this machine was beyond her.

Towards the end of the room, around the time she spied the iron staircase leading up into the second floor of the Type-6, she picked up a strange audio signature. Only on the feedback graph at first, going up and down in almost rhythmic fashion. Too quiet to be heard by ear just yet; perhaps it was some kind of vibration from the engine? Cocking her rifle, if only to reassure herself and pretend that it afforded her safety, she pressed on towards and up the stairs.

Emerging into the lightless, cramped corridor of the personnel deck the noise became even more audible and she could finally hear it – it was a voice. Weak, rasping and, so she thought, trying to speak. She could not make out any of the words just yet, but found the tone of voice strangely melodic and almost pleasant. Standing at the end of the corridor and staring towards the opposite, she called for thermal optics, knowing that her voice would not penetrate outside of her helmet. The walls and floors were mostly cool, but there was a whiff of faint heat emerging from the second door to the right, perhaps indicative of something warm inside – like a survivor. Switching back to darkvision, she pressed on into the lightless bowels of the vehicle and hoped that she would make it out alive.

With every step she took, it became more and more apparent that the voice she was hearing was not simply trying to speak. It was, in fact, singing, and there was more than one singer. By the time she reached the door, she was certain there were four, maybe five voices, repeating the same chorus in a disturbing sing-song. She recognized none of the words and could not even guess at what language – if any – they were singing in, but they were consistent all the same. Her heart was pounding now, and she had to take a big swallow as she pressed another button on her rifle to contract the barrel and make it more wieldy in the cramped interior. The shorter rail length would lessen the exit velocity of any fired rounds, but it would still be sufficient to punch through meat. With a final, calming sigh she pushed open the creaking metal door.

Seated in a circle inside the pitch black interior, four naked men squatted around a bizarre, organically shaped growth that sprouted from the ground. The thing had the appearance of a dozen veiny tendrils coiled around themselves and twisting upwards, like a strange tree sapling. The men were haggard and suffered obvious wounds from Rot exposure. When the door creaked open, they turned to look at her but did not interrupt their song for even a second. Their sunken faces were hollow and lifeless, as if they were corpses animated by a puppeteer. She had to take a step back into the corridor and trained her rifle against the opening.

“Can you understand me?!” she nervously called out, her voice sounding strangely robotic through the vox-caster. The nearest man extended his half-dissolved hand towards her, as if beckoning her closer. “Hello?” she tried again, but still no answer. But things subtly became clearer to her. The words they were singing in, the rhyme of the song, the meaning of the next verse. She could not explain how, but all these things suddenly came flooding into her brain as if opening this door had opened a valve that had always been present, only forgotten.

Before she knew it, her lips were moving all on their own, and she too was softly singing the hymn of the elders. As if in a trance, she did not stop to question her actions even once as she sang with ever more confidence, and stepped into the room. It felt so liberating to let go of all fear and doubt and immerse herself in the beauty of what she had found. She stopped in front of the coiled artifact that had grown from the ground and stared at its surface through the grainy, black-and-white image of her visual feed. To her flanks, the men staggered closer to her, clutching at the steel-reinforced composite fabric of her leggings and staring up to her through bloodshot, decaying eyeballs as if she were a messiah. In a flash of remembrance, unsettling thoughts of her childhood played out before her and she forgot about the song for a brief moment – long enough to catch herself and send a jolt of panic through her body.

She shrieked in horror and, before she could rationalize her decision, pressed her rifle against the man clutching her left leg and pulled the trigger. A bright blue flash illuminated the rotting bunk room for a split second before the unfortunate man’s upper torso was ripped to shreds to the sound of a high-pitched coil whine. She pulled the other leg free from the feeble, decaying hands of the second man and stumbled backwards, hitting a bunk bed with her back. “Get away from me!” she yelped, heart pounding and breath wheezing. But then it came back to her, words and verses and melodies worming their way into her brain. These motherfuckers wouldn’t stop singing! If only she could-

“Audio, shut down!” she yelled into her helmet, and near-instantly all audio feed from outside was cut out. All that remained was the rhythmic thumping of her own blood in her ears. She clumsily fumbled her way towards the exit, almost tripping over the doorsill, before she tumbled into the corridor. The visual feed became blurry, or so she thought. It took a moment for her to realize that she was crying she knew not why. Every second she remained in this tomb threatened the partial or complete loss of autonomy over her body. Out – she had to get out. Awash with panic, she ran and stumbled towards the staircase, hurried downwards and pressed her way through the heavy boxes anchored in the cargo bay. Whatever racket she was making in her escape, she could hear none of it through the silenced audio.

When she emerged into the ashen desert she collapsed onto her hands and knees, shivering all over. Her eyes were still watery, but there was nothing she could do to wipe them dry. The alien melody was still stuck in her mind, and would remain with her perhaps for the rest of her life, but at least her lips were not moving, not singing. She was quite sure of that. Rising to her knees, she gazed around herself and beheld nothing, save for a thick fog of airborne dust, a pitch black sky and endless dunes comprised of the ashes of the world. A fresh tear rolled over her cheek, and now she knew why it was that she cried.

The bright orange-red sun spilt rays of light across the bleak wastelands that encompassed in all directions. Among the sea of dirt, sand and the derelict resemblance of civilization was a motor vehicle that steadily made itself across the expanse, holding two individuals of very different worlds. Kandy surveyed for threats with autopilot on while Chinatsu was recovering from an expensive synthetic memory surgery. They spent most of the day in contemplative silence, which was normal for both of them for separate reasons. Kandy, feeling concerned, inquired invitingly



Chinatsu’s silence and demeanor indicated that greater context should be given, but as time dragged on Chinatsu went ‘Hm?’



Chinatsu smiled pleasantly with soft eyes, which betrayed the consternation which plagued her mind “You’d have to consider that I’m from somewhere completely different than here, and the memory of what was risks fading. It worries me more than I should, but everything being so new. . .” Her voice steadily decrescendoed to nothing. She noticed since the implants she had begun speaking the common language much more fluently than before.



“Maybe. . .5 years now, back then I was a Lieutenant colonel. . . I was competing with a few others for Colonel since an incumbent’s retirement was incoming.” Not wanting to think of that time, a separate thought came from her mind, “Before I was responsible for managing my theatre against threats beyond the wall, as a Captain and Major I was an investigator for incidences that concerned The Lancers in the uhh. . .undercity, which is where my government enslaves countless people to create more space underground. By the time I left all women were considered property, some better off than others. . .I was a part of the military, and despite achieving infamously I was discouraged by the people I put my life on to protect. I was property to The Lancers and I never saw a day where my superiors would forget to remind me I'm better off breeding instead.”

Kandy, who was a bit disillusioned, remarked abjectly


“They saw my promotion as a threat to their world view. . .It wasn’t the first time I encountered that obstacle, as a man taking commands from a woman is seldom a reality from where I am from. Historically there has been incidences of military heros named Batyr’s, all of which through time have been men. The greatest fear was realized when my non-probable dream of becoming a Batyr haunted the sentiment of men, because it was assumed with that there would be a revolution.”



“My years as an investigator brought many allies that were part of a female resistance that had cells in almost all parts of the city, and I was among them but also a sort of public figure. There was a hidden underground element to this network, but there was also a small public presence that held an office in the higher society which politically demanded to revoke secondary citizenship from women, and such. . .”



"We liked to see ourselves as humans by default, it's sort of a counter to the objectification. Most of us were treated as extensions of the home. I had a privileged life relative to others, and managed to find other many other women and allies who shared my distaste for how things were, but the prevalence far outweighed it. Without our help in the work force they would have surely crumbled. I like the odds at present, out here in the wastes."

The ticking of the Geiger counter began and the two looked at each other, before adjusting their direction away from the unknown source of radiation. Things seemed relatively calm and they were back on track.

Kandy took advantage of the lull,


There was a momentary silence where Chinatsu, who was typically unflappable, stared hard trying to compose best how she remembered. Intrusively, she thought about how she might forget all of her old memories if she didn’t start vocalizing about them, but she resisted and tried to briefly answer her question, which came out exasperated like a sigh, “It became apparent that I had a better chance of surviving, running through the forest for as far as I could, than I did being there.”



“I tried once and came back. They needed me there both as a protector of the city and to coordinate the womens resistance, but it seemed like no matter what I could do the solution was still beyond my grasp, and my presence generated a lot of heat from the government, particularly The Lancers. I assembled a team of friends to help me leave the city and I would not have made it without them. They had to return-- my actions were suicidal, desperate and in a sense, selfish. ” Some tears crawled down her face, but her demeanor was monolithic and melancholy which spoke of her confidence in being vulnerable yet strong.

Wanting to lighten the emotional weight of the conversation, Kandy noted

This gave some comfort to Chinatsu and her smile helped ease her companions concern. As they came closer to the city, she remarked on how comfortable she was in the car. The vehicles in Rodaycia were much smaller than those of these land because it was contained to about 400 square miles with a circular 40 feet tall wall around. Seeing other vehicles drive in the way they do in such openness was bewildering and beyond her imagination. Before they knew it, there were more and more -- the traffic being rigorous, quick and dynamic, which while it was to much chagrin for Chinatsu, was delightful to Kandy.

While they were still far from the most main road to Jericho, the outskirts were sometimes littered with street corners and complex urban developments that were, even in their dilapidated state, still usable for the purposes of drift racing. Something about the center of gravity being connected to the floor at neck-breaking speeds while the car was going sideways made Chinatsu queasy, but she had a throw up bag between her legs just in case. As one particular group of racers began to test Kandy at the height of her skill, Chinatsu decided to close her eyes and drop into a meditative state.

As they were on the tail of one of the other drivers, a bounty/warrant indicator caught Kandy’s attention. Details of not just the individual, but the group he was a part to, occupied her attention briefly -- . There was another corner coming up; the sound of Kandy adjusting her gearbox and Chinatsu peaked at her companion, before reading the new information about their targets. They waited until there was more of a straight line on them and in the meantime, Chinatsu strapped herself to the top of the vehicles ceiling.

They were coming into very long turn before the road went in a way that was one direction; all four of them had downshifted and began to drift the corner -- however the racer to her right steered into a donut. This was the perfect opportunity to eject Chinatsu, as she would be launched directly at them. The noise which indicated this action gave Chinatsu the idea that she was about to be propelled by the car. Kandy pressed the button while her vehicle ‘flicked’ and watched her friend get throttled onto the car as she pursued the other two, feeling a little invigorated by the air.

Finding herself on a very fast and out of control vehicle and expecting those inside to react to her arrival, she activated her lance and proceeded to use it like a torch. A beam of flame pierced through the vehicle's interior and began to set aflame and melt one of the passengers heads. She spun around in quick succession while holding the lance against the roof of the car resulting in the ceiling falling on the weapons of her opponents. Hopping out of the hole she made she reconfigured her lance to act more like a flame thrower to an intense cone of heat projected twice at the remaining passengers.

This all happened quickly enough for the other two racers to realize what was going on and the one on Kandy’s left peeled away to check on their casualty. Chinatsu activated her glider and used her lance to propel her at the other car and twisted around so her back was to them; their bullets slapped against it like hail drops until she was onto their vehicle. She found herself on top of it and much of her glider receded into a back-pack, improving her mobility greatly. She made quick work with her lance, creatively shifting through its functions with confident understanding of its results. Kandy seemed to have her own thing going on and Chinatsu began tagging the individuals to verify the targets and assess collateral damage in order to receive the bounty.

Kandy returned not too long after with some success and immediately criticized Chinatsu,

Chinatsu was flustered and apologetic, but content she was back on the road after making a little money.

Well here's Chinatsu's, since I only info dumped it in the IC. . . her story goes back to 2015 but I had to adapt it from the fantasy setting to this one . . .it boils down to Chinatsu being born in a state that gives women two options: give birth or be a prostitute. The third option has become considered for some women and once given opportunity to study at the first all womans school ended up over-achieving her male counterparts in academics and athletics. . .She took the Lancer's officers exam and often disguised as a man because it was always a thing and at a certain point she had to stop doing that.

After graduating she was in the Lancers patrolling the wall around Rodaycia for a few years and recieved promotions more under the duress of the situation, as the pride of ranking a woman above a man was not a normal thing. When she was promoted to Major she shifted her position from the walls to a representative/detective in the underground city exploring conflicts and situations that The Lancers should be a part of. She also made many allies with women in the city to help sort of form a resistence or to help protect women from violence and objectification.

Eventually she made it to Lt Colonel where she commanded forces and directed them to help protect the city. Her superiors were self concious about a woman having such a high status in the military despite asking her every day and encouraging others to bring tribute to marry and give birth instead. In every RP I've done with her, she's escaped the city sort of like a fugitive rambo and met up with the other characters

While there is nothing necessarily different that associates Rodaycian humans from any other, there are a few cosmetic features that are prevalent as well as associations that add contrast with others. The average Rodaycian has a round, flat face with slanted eyes, otherwise known as epicanthic folds. Their skin color ranges from an absolute paleness represented by underground dwellers to the typical darkly tanned epidermis of those fortunate to live above the surface. Their typical taciturn and phlegmatic demeanor has developed as a result of the history of their environment and is a society wide sentiment among the city states.

The Rodaycian Emirate is a principality which non-exclusively draws inspiration from the Arabic world to Southeast and East Asia, adds a heaping amount of societal conflict, and also the city of Cyador from some books by L.E. Modesitt Jr. In the setting, they are descendants to a long line of history originating from barbarians who inhabited the Rodaycian Forest, eventually settling despite the hostile environment it provided, but it depends on what setting it is being used in (as is the magic system, which can easily be replaced with appropriate technology). The city, 390 square miles large, is surrounded by thick walls that go up to 39 feet high, and are always patrolled by Lancers who are on-the-job to fight back the forest from enveloping the city.







Rodaycia's survival starts with it's ability to protect itself from the external environment. The rainforest around the city has a natural tendency to attempt to exterminate the city, much like the body treats a foreign bacteria or virus. The adaptability of the Lancers to the environment was key and continues to be of the most importance to the city. They by and large are renowned by the people and politically they hold a considerable sway considering they are the ones who keep it alive. Alternatively, it has been found that their leverage is not as strong as others might think because they have an undeniable obligation to their people; if they unionized or striked, the city itself would be consumed in the forest. With that said, Lancers' share a length of power but lack the ability to directly exert it onto the population, without suffering severe consequences.

Another critical economic group are those who both harvest and dwell the jungle in order to provide sustenance for the city. More experienced farmers work where it is much richer; these farmers are usually paid in salary and have teams of trusted workers that are quick and efficient. Beyond the richest of the crop, the land is divided to several companies who must yield a quota of their crop or else suffer severe losses. The labor used ranges from unionized work forces, to communal, to indentured servitude and serfdom slavery. Since crops do not necessarily yield a diverse range of nutrients, jungle dwellers are needed to venture out into the rainforest in order to scavenge and hunt for food. While the job itself is extremely dangerous, it is lucrative and those that do venture out into the wild can collect enough luxury foods to last them a week or month without working again.



Beyond the need for sustenance, for those who are truly untouchable the city of Rodaycia has a quarry in the city itself in one of the poorest districts. Acting as, essentially, a makeshift prison and mad-house, people are worked to the death in mining pits to the point where an underground tunnel system has been developed underneath the city. The mining venture has yielded plenty of precious and conventional metals as well as building materials for any repairs for the wall. The Principality retains the materials and sells it to the manufacturers to make raw material into conventional tools, jewelry and a range of other products.

The Merchant class of society steps in to distribute these products either through peddling to the patrons of the city itself or by giving rarer items to traveling merchants who leave the city itself and travel to other lands in order to sell their seemingly exotic wares. Most shops are found in the poorer section of the city, where there is also ample amounts of services provided. It is a rule of thumb to believe the closer to the center you are in the city, the higher quality the goods and services; the truth is that they are better when they are closer to the wealthy. A large percentage of the upper-class population are successful merchants who have large swathes of influence over parts of the city.



Without the strangling force of red tape and the iron grip of the Prince which rules, the city would run lawless and at an on-survival basis. Ruling through mostly sheer military power, the Prince is at the top of the food chain, receiving the best of everything the city has to offer. Under his retinue is a vast army of bureaucrats and criminal organizations that keep all sorts of people in fear, whether it's fines and constant inspections or beatings and vandalization. The bureaucratic system is based on written tests and theoretically anyone from any economic class could apply, however the education required to have a chance is only found in wealthy communities. While some impoverished had managed to make it, the vast majority hold offices in committees more to bully and compete for influence then to better the city.








The Rodaycian Rainforest, known to the natives of Rodaycia as Seu Pha, is a tropical rainforest that is densely vegetated with exotic, dangerous fauna and flora. Seu Pha suffers from extreme heat, monsoons and a variety of other tropical conditions that simply aren't shared with it's geographic neighbors.

The curse on Seu Pha was levied in order to punish the Rodaycians for an unknown, ancient reason. The ozone layer above the forest had been magically diminished as intensify the heat, the ground was made hyperfertile and became home to extremely deadly flora and fauna. Giant trees surrounded the city of Rodaycia, so that they may eventually fall on the city and cause it to ruin. The sheer danger of leaving the city walls effectively embargoed the city from any trade or contact to the outside world.

Vegetation native to Seu Pha grows and regenerates much faster. Many of the plants can either be rich in vitamins or medical properties, but for every helpful plant there are three or so more harmful ones. Most trees have roots outside of the ground to take advantage of the mist that clouds the region.



The role of religion is tightly woven to the Prince's agenda; if there is too much rain to a point of flood, he must perform public ceremonies banishing it. If too many animals get into the city itself, or there is a food shortage, then he must perform the appropriate rituals. These practices are largely non-functional and do not actually solve problems, however many people believe it is because he wishes for his people to suffer, not because his powers are non-existant. His powers are assumed such that, for instance, if he had eaten a fish and threw its bones into water, he could simply state that it is living and the bones would animate. Many people believe that he has the power to make his words fact; it is up to the Prince to give true to the illusion.

It is an myth that only those of 'royal blood' are able to utilize Chaos Magic, and thus, those who are royal are to be revered regardless of their occupation. It is tradition that, if you were to kill a high-class citizen, you would be beat to death in a burlap sack as to not spill royal blood. Even in more shamanistic practices, only royal 'shamans' could contact the dead of royal blood-- those who lived in a line of commoner ancestry could only contact the dead of a common

A large part of their religion revolves around whether or not they're supposed to be consumed by the forest or if they're supposed to fight it back. While the latter is much more dominant, there are a noticeably large portion of believers that think those who fight the forest are simply delaying their fate, and that peace can only be found once they're subsumed into the forest itself.



On Skin Tone,

Skin tone in Rodaycian society is a subtle, yet solid factor in understanding ones social status. While it is certainly not definitive, it is widely assumed in Rodaycian culture that prestige, wealth and wellness is associated with darker skin. Because most impoverished live closer to the walls where the branches of trees cover sunlight, they often have fairer skin; and those who are untouchable often pale from lack of nutrition and work deep underground; their skin sometimes doesn't see sunlight for weeks on end. This makes sunlight itself a privilege of sorts; some employers specify darker skin, especially in the agricultural industry, where skilled labourers are important. The high society in Rodaycia adopts the quality of dark skin to the point where glass has become a luxury item, and well-to do members of society have glass ceiling so that they could tan their skin in-doors as they do business.

On Women,

Women in Rodaycia are split between three social classes; prostitutes, child-bearers and occupation-based. The first two have been serving social roles that have been the backbone of reproduction in Rodaycia, the third is a recent addition that is seen as useless by most males, especially those who have been displaced or challenged by them. The need for the first two systems are simple; Rodaycia has an unstable population that has a high chance of squalor and disease, as well as a potential to baby boom. To try to stabilize their population, the men have decided to have women for pleasure and women for child-bearing. There are unrealistic expectations for defining beauty in women. Many women find themselves objectifying themselves and trying to fit the expectation, typically resulting in eating disorders and many other maladies.

During the summer season, the wealthy men traditionally go on a hiatus from their jobs and visit the poorer section of the city in search for wives. The practice is a rather frivolous pursuit, some taking wives off of looks and personality, others off their performance and physical abilities for lack of better words. After choosing their wives, they perform marriage ceremonies by the end of the season to seal their ties. All of this is done purposefully to reduce the effect of inbreeding; daughters who are born into wealthy society are usually used as bargaining chips that must be bureaucratically checked to ensure the elimination of inbreeding.

During the winter is when the Lancers are allowed to go off on hiatus, mainly because during the summer the forest is at its worst, and it is to an extent quelled during the winter. Women who failed to impress a suitor during the summer have a second chance; some find it preferential because if there are no other wives they may inherit his assets if he is killed in duty; some women make a career out of this.

"As a man, it comes to common occurrence to ask a question; shall you find a weak-willed woman who will satisfy and obey, or shall you find a strong-willed woman who will rebel and abstain? The real question is, do you wish a weak-willed child or one which is strong?"



The women who follow the path of a child-bearer are called Tàitài.

The role of child-bearers are integral to sustaining the population of Rodaycia. To officially be recognized, they must don special clothing reminiscent to a Hijab; in addition they are tied to a lifetime of obligation to their husband. They are expected to be quite obedient to this husband and their worth is usually reliant on their child-bearing ability, however personality traits and other physical characteristics are also subject. Despite many inequalities, a child-bearer has exclusive rights on whether she wants to conceive, and is often able to heavily influence and almost directly control her husbands assets, especially if she wishes to have financial or political obligations fulfilled before she decides to start child-making.



The poor women who follow the path of a concubine are called Weṣ̄yā, and those that are rich are called Metres.

The occupation of a prostitute is found mainly in the lower-society of Rodaycia, however there are some high-society escorts that exist. The role of prostitutes in society is not unlike others, except the function is hyper-utilized as it is a major occupation. Most women are not full-time prostitutes and serve in low-wage jobs during the day; prostitution is an assumed occupation and, in many ways, holds true to that standard. In high society, escorts are much more clean and usually classically trained in intimate arts; in a lot of ways they are an entirely different position because they usually do not need the money, unlike their impoverished counterparts. In addition, concubinage is also relatively common among the wealthy class, for those who wish to have lesser wives that serve another purpose besides child bearing.

An Oiran is a type of prostitute that is typically found in high-class Rodaycian society. They are different from typical Metres because they often dwell in the arts, set trends of fashion and become cultural icons. Unlike Metres, Oiran do not only contain members of high society, but also those who are promising in lower society. In order to be considered as an Oiran, she needed to be educated in the arts, literate and to be able to hold intelligent conversations.



The women who follow the path of men are called Kadın Savaşçı, and if they perform some sort of combat role, they are also referred to as Onna-bugeisha.



Most recently, the woman's ability to choose an occupation that is usually fit for a men had become open largely because of political reasons; it is largely unknown except for those who know the right connections. Women have, from half a century ago, been able to take up careers that deal in mostly menial labor but occasionally, business, arts, bureaucracy, etc. Many are put through strenuous tests and are expected to perform at a higher degree then men; this usually means that those who do make careers are often exceptional and end up challenging their male counterparts, which then leads to a range of difficulties. Sometimes those that own companies find themselves boycotted until they find a husband and effectively become a child-bearer; the woman would have to hand her business over to her husband. Bureaucrats will find more and more ridiculous red tape which restricts them from climbing the ladder and holds them from performing activities that elicit authority.

On Marriage,

In lower society, it is seen custom that women get married to the wealthy men who take a tour through the slums to find wives. Wives here are prized for their sexual prowess, looks, charisma and often their degree of willpower. It is considered important for a lower class woman to have plenty of sexual experience and to look as appealing as possible, leading to some families forcing their children to wear neck rings made of brass coils to elongate their necks.

In contrast, the high society is quite the opposite. Since almost all female role models wear head scarfs and wield some sort of authority, virginity is prized and pre-marital sex is shameful, sometimes bad enough to have a daughter disowned. This is especially true if she is pregnant out of wed-lock. Men are expected to be fruitful and the expectation is excessive and often violent.

If a Kadın Savaşçı (woman who works a mans job) gets married, her occupation halts and she must assume the role of a Tàitài (child bearer).

A man is allowed to have multiple wives if he can afford them; concubinage is rather frequent. Second and third wives have secondary rights to the first wife, concubines have none.

On yintenetto (Rodaycian internet),

Beyond the gender gap, there is an already developed hierarchy in yintenneto that provides a basis for social stratification, sometimes reliant on the professional skill of the person, their charisma and generally their ability to accrue followers. The virtual culture generated Rodaycia is staggering, to the point where many people from the city have a hard time socializing with each other like normal human beings. Typically names, phrases and professional writing will be affected by the messenger culture that the city nurtures, which adds alienation towards other cultures. The routine of the typical free citizen is almost entirely digitized. Because their culture is so indebted to technology, a large majority (35 to 50%) of the time awake is spent on the yintenetto (the internet). Typically they work on-line, review decisions made by judges that are pertinent to them or entertain themselves with the various media outlets available. Seldom do people leave their homes to attend social events, and schooling and work is almost all virtualized. Using technology to neurologically stimulate sexual receptors in the mind, sex is sold over the yintenetto in massive proportions. Even intimate activities like dating or spending time with family are done through virtual means and real life encounters are often very special and remarkable.

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The Collective helps to create the illusion of government in their territories by assigning political worth to the deference of layers upon layers of bureaucratic mess that is only utilized for the occasional arrest of anyone who the bribe money points to; most police officers join for the easy pay, the free weapons and the authority of being an officer of the law. No one takes the government seriously, even the police know their organization is a joke. The illusion of a government force is utilized most when dealing with foreign affairs; there the government is very laxed and usually has to say "the city state of Genzinti is not responsible for any civilians acts of terror, crime or otherwise illegal activity in foreign nations."

The true law of the land lies in this; if you want to murder someone, murder someone no one cares about. Better yet, murder someone that a lot of people want to murder-- those people will probably give you money! If you do happen to murder (or steal from, or beat, etc) someone a lot of people care about, you just pissed off a whole bunch of people and they will probably not take kindly to your company.

They do decide to work together to achieve their goals eventually, headed mostly by the biggest gangs and criminal organizations. However, if enough smaller gangs work in unison, they can make a force much like the larger ones and make decisions like them and often do. Civilians essentially count on the good will of others otherwise their law is the law of who has the gun pointing first. It's a loose society with four races, the humans being the primary race followed by the vespers, cro and zeluri.

The truth of the Collective's governmental economy is that there are systems of control put in place; permits, fines, fees and the like exist but are seldom used. Foreigners pay into these fees, where as those familiar ignore them. If a certain product (for example, Acetire) should be limited, the civilian population utilizes coercion to scare competition, steals the product and destroys it or disrupt the activity to create the product.
People either sell and buy through bartering or use foreign or domestic currency; government involvement is not minimal, it's non-existent.

The majority of their economy is based on black marketing; selling drugs, arms and other commonly illegal goods are their specialty. Vehicles are almost always modified to have secret compartments, drugs are commonly pressed into everyday objects-- the nature of the Drogues economy is contingent on high-value illegal goods, slave labor, fraud and criminal services.

The Conglomerate was created out of the need to set very specific corporate rules to outlaw espionage and violence between the corporations. It is essentially used as a tool to regulate trade and is regulated by the companies themselves. A myriad of loopholes are greatly jumped through, such as the usage of mercenaries to not only defend but also to infiltrate and sabotage other companies assets.

There is no real government in the sense of the word in the Conglomerate. The document that binds all the corporations into a non-aggression treaty is the law, but their only means of enforcing it is by restricting trade to the criminal organizations. If an organization breaks the contract beyond repair, its assets are assumed dissolved, its employees have a short time to leave the corporation or else they are blacklisted and physical assets are ascertained by force through security firms. The laws are homogeneous between corporations and individuals. When an individual steals or murders, they’re treated with the same punishment as the corporations; social and economic isolation. The industrialized cities (called Industrial Complex’s) typically have anti-poverty population control which means black-listed individuals could be sent off to slavery underneath Rodaycia. Human trafficking has become a serious issue within both of the factions as a demand for slaves has been greater than ever.

The Conglomerate has strong provisions against unifying to fight, and would likely mass-hire from the large pools of mercenaries floating around to fight off any organized invasions. The Conglomerate itself does not declare war, but it is entirely possible for multiple corporations to hire mercenaries and gangs to offer protection. If another nation believes the Conglomerate is attacking them, they will ask for proof and if given the evidence they would undergo a consideration between the corporations, potentially resulting in it's liquidation.

The economy of the Conglomerate is a beating heart with extreme ups and downs. The time between recessions and recovery happen at such a fast rate that it's almost normal for one month or week to be in desperate poverty and the next to be in great wealth. With the help of the Collective they have created a pathway to the Rodyacian city-state Heho that typically must be maintained on a daily basis, an investment that traders who wish to visit the region must apply through the machete and other means. A wall is being slowly built towards the city, but many find the trip may be safer through the undercity.



Corporations in the Conglomerate have developed technologies that can manufacture, stockpile and implant artificial memories. This is done through a neural implant popularly known as a memplant. Synthetic Memories are tailored to act like normal memories, but depending on the price, the quality of the memory may be much greater or less. Additionally, the type of memory that is invoked can be customized from topographic, flashbulb, declarative and procedural. Retrieval of the memory is inherently based on the price; if the implant is poor, then the memplant is hard to access and vague, if the implant is of high-quality than it can be eidetic.

The process of implanting synthetic memories begins with planning what sort of memory the client wants; there are pre-packaged memories to pick from which range from combat training to lectures, to sexual experiences and childhood. Customizing memories always costs more because the memories have to be constructed from scratch or from another pre-made memory. After the memory is designed, it is implanted by surgical procedure and the client undergoes a deep sleep.



Moneta was originally developed to improve wakefulness for people with sleep disorders, and has piqued the interest of many laboratories who were involved in neuropharmacology. It is a heavy nootropic that has the same effect as having a major coffee hit without any caffeine jitters; its users work for longer than usual and are often surprised at the time that has passed by. It increases energy levels, alertness, allows people to stay focused for long periods of time and can activate parts of the brain that control motivation.

Moneta, or its chemical name, Mnemosynetam, causes stimulations in acetylcholine receptors in the user's synapses which causes the speed of thought to be throttled, extensively improves logical analysis and the basic ability to learn and remember. It also increases the communication between the two hemispheres of the brain in a way which leads to a more "creative" ability to solve problems. It also serves on a social level, allowing the user to become more confident, improve their verbal fluency and depresses anxiety levels.

When taking Moneta, the user has a definite feeling that an artificial substance is affecting them. There are reports of headaches, vomiting, extreme aggression, anxiety depression and uneven heartbeats for subjects that aren't on a controlled diet and sleep schedule. The magic of Moneta is that when it's used in the right conditions, the brain and muscle memory is retained long after the drug dissipates from the body. While they don't necessarily learn the same way nor have the same reactions as if they were on the drug, they do not return to their normal state of being until several years have passed.